Dyed All Over
by mickeylover303
Summary: The realisation of change was not a gradual progression, but instead a vulgar assimilation of reality that Nick wasn't really prepared for. Fannysmackin' tag. NickGreg.


It was Nancy who called it in; cleared the alley maybe a few minutes after everything happened. She was a patrol officer, closest to the area and the one who had to report it; the one who found Greg alongside another man...both left for dead. But it was Grissom who called Nick; the supervisor en route to the scene while Nick was in the middle of a case.

"_It's Greg_," was all the older man said initially, and Nick could hear the voice playing again and again in his head like some old broken record regretfully scratched and continuous, repetitive sounds separated only by an intermittent grating noise – the illusory notion the only sound in the quiet room. It didn't matter that Grissom said it in that slightly admonishing tone; intermixed with something frighteningly close to pity, almost overwhelmed by subtle tinges of concern.

All that mattered was how only two words could seemingly encompass the past seven years of his life; all of it somehow revealing itself in one gasp and rapidly crumbling around him. Because for that brief moment, those agonisingly still seconds until Grissom spoke again, Nick was without feeling – trapped in an emotional abyss simply because he didn't know _how_ to feel after those two words.

But it wasn't until Grissom relayed what really took place did everything begin to sink in; Greg's condition somehow disappearing within the shock of what ensued. The words _alive_ and _okay_ became painfully insincere and easily besieged by the reality of the situation. Words that used to be a lifeline once so long ago now only a poignant reminder of the fear that lay deep within the recesses of Nick's mind; one he still was trying to forget and wanted to do everything in his power to prevent.

And even now – hours later on a stiff chair – Nick could still feel the suddenness of an insurmountable guilt that fell upon him and his stomach continued to churn under the irrational belief that he was at fault – the what-if's and multiple possibilities that could have each led to a different outcome.

One where he didn't have to see Greg in a hospital bed for a second time.

He tightened his grip around Greg's hand at the thought, closing his eyes when Greg's fingers didn't return the gesture. He could feel the fringes of the blanket he brought from home brush against his knuckles, wondering if it would actually make a difference this time, if knowing he was there would make Greg wake up.

Not wanting to answer his own question, Nick reluctantly let go of Greg's hand, looking away as the removal of his own served only to uncover more discoloured skin; further adding to the morbid display of colours painted on Greg like a canvas. He moved his fingers to Greg's hair, gently running them through the visible strands; grimy and drenched in sweat, the small section not covered by bandages.

Logic told him that Greg was a grown man and didn't need Nick hovering over him – no matter how much Nick tried. Logic told him that Greg was able to take care of himself and didn't need Nick to hold his hand – no matter how much Nick kept reaching. But logic also told him that people didn't need to commit senseless acts of violence even if it wasn't true - no matter how much Nick wanted to believe otherwise.

Maybe it was life's way of saying he'd become too complacent lately, too used to how _right_ things seemed to be; when he reached a point where the wrenches of the past no longer had the power to slow him down. And for the first time in years he found that there was worth more to life than just existing, found a way to live beyond the mediocrity that he had fallen into, and found something – _someone_ – to live for.

Maybe it was another of part life he'd forgotten to expect. One of those inevitable truths no one truly desired to hear but made the meaningful more meaningful; brought things full circle. One of those natural ironies that seemed as mundane as the sun rising, it was something remembered only when it set and appreciated fully when it became cold.

But maybe it was the abruptness of it all that truly took Nick by surprise, the fact that there was seemingly no rationale behind it and he was still looking for a reason he would never find. He didn't expect much in his profession – some part of him turning irrevocably cynical some time ago – but it didn't stop him from wanting an explanation, looking for some kind of connection; the same one he'd always been desperate to give to the countless faces of victims and their families.

_Something like Greg's hair_, he thought idly, quiet laughter escaping him and quickly becoming a choking sound.

A rich, dark brown the first time he saw it, Nick had always assumed it was Greg's natural hair colour and it wasn't until later that Greg jokingly admitted that it was the closest he could get to it. But it was still something he could count on, a kind of consistency Nick had always paid attention to but never really seen, even going so far as taking it for granted. It was just another extension of Greg that Nick never questioned and didn't hesitate to accept. Highlighted, spiked, shaved...it was something that changed over time, changing with Greg and somehow changing with Nick until it became closer to something it once was.

But it wasn't the same shade it was all those years ago, a kind of brown more dull in comparison and only suggestive of what it used to be; an association not entirely unexpected as Greg became older, matured, and finally moved out of the Lab. A change that like _this_ – like _now_ – Nick had somehow missed, as well.

Maybe life was trying to tell him something after all.

Sighing heavily, Nick took what little comfort he could from the feeling of Greg's hair in between his fingers. His hand lingered intently above Greg's head and Nick tried his best not to let it fall; let it rest in the familiar position. His muscles were beginning to protest the decision, but his mind was too afraid to let it go. Afraid the faintest touch would break Greg – shatter him into thousands of pieces that would penetrate Nick's skin when he tried to pick up what he would never be able to put back together.

Leaving only blood in the wake of his attempts.

Lowering his head, Nick bit his lip when he felt a thumb brush the skin underneath his eye, gently wiping away the gathering moisture and resting on his cheek. He watched Greg peer up at him with one eye – the one not completely marred by hues of purple and black; the sound of the other man's voice pervading the silence and something Nick wasn't sure he would ever hear again.

"...you came..."

* * *

_:insert standard disclaimer here:_

_Oh...this one is rather old - two months ago? I almost forgot about it entirely. _

_Anyway, I think this is my first Fannysmackin' tag. And of course, it takes place in season seven of the WibG universe. I don't know what I was going for here, but it's apparent my penchant for puns hit me hard in this one._


End file.
